Behind the skin

When someone says monster, everyone has a different image, that, more or less is the same. Grotesque, deformed beings, creatures of darkness with rotting skin and yellowing teeth, withering away. We all grew up with the monsters in the closet, behind the door, under the bed or in the mirror, but I think mine are a bit different.

They look like us, they blend in with the crowd, you wouldn't be able to single them out. You wouldn't know you were in danger until it was too late. Because you see, monsters act like us, they conform into society and befriend one another. Slowly but surely, corruption oozes from the cracks of their mask, infecting others, drowning them in self loathing until they too will rot away into another monster, going on to find and taint someone else.

I have many friends, but I don't trust them fully. A person is capable of truly horrendous acts, you never know what sick drama they are puperteering on the stage of their perverted mind.

Looking in the mirror, I see that I am no different. I can see myself, peeling off my flesh revealing sallow skin. Eyeballs dull and lifeless, the pupils thinning to slits. Hair oily, falling out in chunks. My nails are sharper now. My gums are bleeding, fangs jut out from my jaw. I tower over my bathroom counter and watch myself. No, I am no different. All we do is hide in our skin suits, hoping no one catches us until we catch them.

To me, that is a monster.